Jane Eyre

fervently longed to do what was right; and only that. »Shew me, shew me the path!« I entreated of Heaven. I was excited more than I had ever been; and whether what followed was the effect of excitement, the reader shall judge.
    All the house was still; for I believe all, except St John and myself, were now retired to rest. The one candle was dying out: the room was full of moonlight. My heart beat fast and thick: I heard its throb. Suddenly it stood still to an inexpressible feeling that thrilled it through, and passed at once to my head and extremities. The feeling was not like an electric shock; but it was quite as sharp, as strange, as startling: it acted on my senses as if their utmost activity hitherto had been but torpor; from which they were now summoned, and forced to wake. They rose expectant: eye and ear waited, while the flesh quivered on my bones.
    »What have you heard? What do you see?« asked St John. I saw nothing: but I heard a voice somewhere cry –
    »Jane! Jane! Jane!« nothing more.
    »Oh God! what is it?« I gasped.
    I might have said, »Where is it?« for it did not seem in the room – nor in the house – nor in the garden: it did not come out of the air – nor from under the earth – nor from overhead. I had heard it – where, or whence, for ever impossible to know! And it was the voice of a human being – a known, loved, well-remembered voice – that of Edward Fairfax Rochester; and it spoke in pain and woe wildly, eerily, urgently.
    »I am coming!« I cried. »Wait for me! Oh I will come!« I flew to the door, and looked into the passage; it was dark. I ran out into the garden: it was void.
    »Where are you?« I exclaimed.
    The hills beyond Marsh-Glen sent the answer faintly back – »Where are you?« I listened. The wind sighed low in the firs: all was moorland loneliness and midnight hush.
    »Down superstition!« I commented, as that spectre rose up black by the black yew at the gate. »This is not thy deception, nor thy witchcraft: it is the work of nature. She was roused, and did – no miracle – but her best.«
    I broke from St John; who had followed, and would have detained me. It was
my
time to assume ascendancy.
My
powers were in play, and in force. I told him to forbear question or remark; I desired him to leave me: I must, and would be alone. He obeyed at once. Where there is energy to command well enough, obedience never fails. I mounted to my chamber; locked myself in; fell on my knees; and prayed in my way – a different way to St John's, but effective in its own fashion. I seemed to penetrate very near a Mighty Spirit; and my soul rushed out in gratitude at His feet. I rose from the thanksgiving – took a resolve – and lay down, unscared, enlightened – eager but for the daylight.
     
     
Chapter XXXVI
    The daylight came. I rose at dawn. I busied myself for an hour or two with arranging my things in my chamber, drawers and wardrobe, in the order wherein I should wish to leave them during a brief absence. Meantime, I heard St John quit his room. He stopped at my door: I feared he would knock – no, but a slip of paper was passed under the door. I took it up. It bore these words –
    »You left me too suddenly last night. Had you stayed but a little longer, you would have laid your hand on the Christian's cross and the angel's crown. I shall expect your clear decision when I return this day fortnight. Meantime, watch and pray that you enter not into temptation: the spirit, I trust, is willing, but the flesh, I see, is weak. I shall pray for you hourly, – Yours, St John.«
    »My spirit,« I answered, mentally, »is willing to do what is right; and my flesh, I hope, is strong enough to accomplish the will of Heaven, when once that will is distinctly known to me. At any rate, it shall be strong enough to search – inquire – to grope an outlet from this clowd of doubt, and find the open day of certainty.«
    It was the first of June; yet the morning was overcast and chilly: rain beat fast on my casement. I heard the front-door open, and St John pass out. Looking through the window, I saw him traverse the garden. He took the way over the misty moors in the direction of Whitcross – there he would meet the coach.
    »In a few more hours I shall succeed you in that track, cousin,« thought I: »I too have a coach to meet at Whitcross. I too have some to see and ask after in England, before I depart for ever.«
    It wanted yet two hours of breakfast-time. I filled